


Small Mercies

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trust Issues, Wing Grooming, Wing Injury, Wingfic, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: It had been a long time since Crawly had run into an angel-- well, into any angel that wasn't Aziraphale. There weren't so many on Earth as there used to be, and they usually weren't too difficult to avoid. This one, though, had caught him by surprise.(Crawly gets smited. Aziraphale lends a hand.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 299
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Small Mercies

**Syria – 2500 BCE**

Crawly sprawled on the cool stone floor of the rocky outcropping, trying to stop trembling. He lay on his stomach, one wing tucked tight to his side, the other hanging at an odd angle, broken. Outside, the desert sun beat down, unrelenting.

A beam of light from a crack overhead burned a thin line in front of his face. He shivered and tried to press himself further back into the shadows. Perhaps it was the snake in him, or perhaps it was just the instinct of any wounded creature, but he was desperate to hide, to be small and unseen. He would have changed into serpent form if he could, but his magic was gone, burned out of him by the holy light still crackling through his veins.

_That had been too close._

It had been a long time since he'd run into an angel-- well, into any angel that wasn't Aziraphale. There weren't so many on Earth as there used to be, and they usually weren't too difficult to avoid. Not known for subtlety, angels-- most of the time you could smell the self-righteousness miles off, and skirt around their notice.

This one, though, had caught him by surprise.

He'd been playing dice in the marketplace, alternating between miracling up impossible die rolls and tweaking the humans' perception so they didn't notice the ones blatantly cheating-- just spreading a bit of general mischief and trickery, really. Maybe the humans would break out into a fight eventually, or maybe they'd take their pockets full of coins and spend the evening chasing the sort of sinful indulgences humans were so prone to. Either way, it'd be a win for Crawly as far as Hell was concerned, and a bit of personal entertainment besides.

He was just pondering whether he should introduce this lot to a particularly devious game he'd picked up in Jericho, when a sunburst of divine energy blazed into life behind him. He winced, pain zinging across his senses, and didn't even have a chance to turn before a hand landed heavy on his shoulder.

“ _ **Demon**_ **,”** a voice rumbled with all the force of imminent thunder, and Crawly had just enough time to think _Fuck! b_ efore the air filled with static, making all his hair stand on end. The pressure around him rose, the air growing heavy, hot and sharp, burning his lungs\-- and all at once it contracted, squeezing him and filling his veins with fire as a brilliant flash whited out his vision.

\-- then he'd been falling, tumbling through the air, dizzy and blinded. He twisted around, throwing his wings out instinctively to catch himself, but he'd been going too fast, and the angle was too steep. He hit the ground just seconds later, left wing snapping under him with a sharp  _crack_ that left him gasping through his singed lungs.

Disoriented and terrified, he'd staggered up, half-blind and shaking, and limped to the first shelter he could find, the barest sliver of space beneath a rock. _On your belly you shall crawl,_ he thought, bitterly, as he slithered beneath its shelter. Forced to cower in the dirt like the serpent he was.

He didn't have the energy to wallow for long, though. No sooner had he pressed himself to the back of the crevice than exhaustion overtook him, and he promptly passed out.

* * *

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since then. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness, never awake for very long before pain and exhaustion pulled him back under. His vision had cleared, after the first few times, but the rest of him still ached, all his joints grinding together as if sand had been poured between the bones. His broken wing was a sharp lance of pain at his back, and his veins still buzzed with the fire-ant burn of leftover divine energy. He knew he should get up: assess the damage, set his wing at the very least, lest it heal crooked; but even the thought of movement exhausted him. He was left staring dully at the slice of sunlight in front of his eyes instead, watching as it slowly crawled across the stone.

Eventually the sun set, and Crawly faded again. He woke to see sharp moonlight illuminating the desert sands, and feel the shine of divine energy flickering at the edge of his senses. Fear flooded him, and his wings flared instinctively before he hissed in pain and wrenched them back in. His thoughts whirled. Had the angel found him again, come to finish him off? He was far too weak to fight, and trying to flee was out of the question. His only hope was to stay hidden, and hope he went unnoticed. He pressed himself further back into the shadows beneath the stone, trying to dampen his aura. Maybe it wouldn't see him, would look past him and his hiding space and continue on its way.

But luck, of course, had never been with him, and he felt the celestial presence growing stronger as it drew closer, seemingly making a beeline directly towards him. It wasn't long at all before the angel was walking just a dozen feet away from his  hidey-hole , some sort of beast of burden trailing along beside it. Crawly froze as footsteps rustled through the sand in front of him; didn't blink, didn't breathe.  _Please_ , he thought, desperately,  _please, don't see me, don't smell me, just keep walking..._

Then the footsteps stopped, and there was a long, considering pause, before they turned and approached the rock.  _Shit_ , Crawly thought, and braced for discorporation--

\--Only to hear a soft, familiar voice ask “...Crawly?”

Crawly slumped in relief.  _Aziraphale_ . Then he caught himself. Just because the angel had been cordial to him previously, didn't mean he was safe now. He'd never been wounded near the Principality before, and maybe the angel hadn't been inclined to strike first, but there was no guarantee he wouldn't finish off an already-injured demon. 

Outside, Aziraphale crouched down, peering into the deep shadows of Crawly's hiding space. “Crawly, is that you? It is, isn't it? I thought I'd felt you...”

Crawly shuddered, breath growing faster despite his efforts to stay still, to be calm and quiet. His instincts were screaming at him to flee, but Aziraphale was blocking the only way out from under the overhanging rock, trapping him. If the angel wanted, he could easily reach in and drag him out, could break his wings or just smite him again, and Crawly would be helpless to fight back...

But long minutes passed and Aziraphale did none of those things. Instead, the angel frowned and sat back on his heels, looking thoughtful. “All right, don't come out then,” he said, sighing. “I picked up some wine and dates at the last oasis, I thought we might share them. But if you don't want to...” He shook his head and stood up, moving away.

Crawly couldn't see much from his vantage point under the rock, but it looked as if Aziraphale was busying himself with something over by the pack animal. A few moments later, there was a flare of light as he lit a small fire, well away from the overhang where Crawly lay hidden. He sat there for some time-- probably reading something. Crawly couldn't see it, but he could hear the faint crackle of papyrus being unrolled, could smell dust and old ink. At length, Aziraphale stood up and left a wineskin on the sand in front of the rocks, before retreating again and returning to his scrolls.

Crawly licked his lips. He _was_ thirsty, even if his corporation didn't technically need liquids, and the wine smelled good, sharp and sweet. He watched the angel for a long time, cautious and wary. But Aziraphale, if he intended to harm Crawly, had taken up the worst possible position to do so: he was seated with the fire between them, giving Crawly a clear view of him while hindering his own vision. And he was seated well away from the rocky overhang, leaving the escape route wide open if Crawly chose to flee instead.

Slowly, slowly, Crawly eased himself out from under the rock, keeping a wary eye on Aziraphale the entire time. The angel never stirred, keeping his eyes on the scroll in his lap, even though he must have heard Crawly moving. The demon grabbed the wineskin and settled in a crouch across the fire from him, poised to flee just in case Aziraphale suddenly leaped up and made a grab for him. Cautiously, he uncapped it and took a small sip.

“Oh!” he hissed in surprise. This _was_ very good. Stronger than the stuff he'd had in Canaan, with much richer flavors, too. He took another, deeper drink, and sighed a little in relief as the wine soothed his parched throat.

Aziraphale finally looked at him, glancing up from his scroll and smiling. “There you are,” he said. “What on Earth were you doing hiding under that rock, you--” He stopped, dropping his scroll in surprise as he noticed Crawly's broken wing, primaries trailing awkwardly in the sand. “You're hurt!”

He made as if it stand up, and Crawly flinched back. “D-Don't,” he hissed. “Stay back.”

Aziraphale froze, slowly sinking back down to sit. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn't mean to startle you. I only--” his face twisted in a complicated expression. “I'd like to help, if I can.”

Crawly stared at him for a long, tense moment, still waiting for the trap to spring. _Why_. Why would Aziraphale- still an angel after all- want to help _him_? It was one thing to engage in a little casual conversation, now and then, when they both happened to be in the same area. It was something else to offer help to an injured enemy. He must have some motive behind the offer, something he thought he could gain.

But then Crawly thought of rain clouds gathering over the walls of Eden, and a sheltering wing offered before he even knew to cower away from the damp. A kindness, freely offered and nothing sought behind it. Was Aziraphale really so thoughtful, now, still? Could he be trusted to help, after all? Something in Crawly wanted to believe that he could.

And Crawly's wing _did_ hurt terribly; sharp pain radiating out from the break, trailing up his shoulder and neck, keeping the muscles cramped and tense. It was a clean break, he thought, the humerus snapped neatly in two, but it was a bad one to try to set himself; the angles were all wrong. If he wanted to do it properly, he was going to need another set of hands. 

“I... all right,” he muttered, shuffling closer and cautiously extending the injured limb.

Aziraphale stood up and moved closer, keeping his motions slow and obvious, until he crouched at Crawly's side. “Oh dear,” he fretted, as he examined the wound with careful fingers. “This is quite the nasty break. What happened?”

“Ngh,” Crawly grunted, head tilted so he could keep the angel in sight. “Ran into one of your colleagues.”

Aziraphale's hand stilled on his wing, taking in the singed and broken feathers, before he looked sharply back at Crawly. “They _smited_ you?”

There was more distress in his voice than Crawly expected. Surely he'd seen smitings before.

“Are you surprised?” Crawly asked drily. “I thought that's what angels were supposed to do to demons.”

There was a long pause, and Crawly looked back to see Aziraphale looking pensive, mouth a tight line and face carefully blank. “I suppose it is,” he said at last.

Then he seemed to remember himself, and straightened up. “Right. I need to set this,” he said briskly. He took one side of the break in each hand, then glanced over to Crawly, meeting golden eyes with his own stormy blue ones. “Are you ready?” he asked, and Crawly nodded.

“Very well. Brace yourself,” Aziraphale muttered, and snapped the bones back into place in one smooth motion.

Crawly yelped, smothering the scream that wanted to escape with gritted teeth, and fell to his knees, fingers clawing into the sand as he panted through the pain.

Behind him, Aziraphale ran a hand ever-so-lightly over the edge of the wing, testing. “It should heal cleanly now,” he said, then sighed, running a hand down the feathers and absently smoothing them into place. “I do wish I could heal it properly... but I don't think a divine miracle would be any good for you, especially not after a smiting.”

Crawly stared back at him, not entirely sure he'd heard correctly. The angel wished he could _heal_ him? With a proper miracle? Surely that wouldn't work. Surely it would only have the opposite effect. But even if it could work, he wondered again: _Why?_ Why do _any_ of this? Not that he didn't appreciate being helped instead of discorporated, but he didn't _understand_.

He didn't say any of it. Instead he simply grunted an agreement. “I don't think so, no.”

He tucked the injured wing gingerly back into place, holding it tight to his side. He expected the angel to move away, now that the task was done, but Aziraphale didn't. He simply sat next to Crawly in silence, looking thoughtful, eyes focused on something in the distance. Something brushed along Crawly's back, a ripple of soft sensation, and he realized with a start that Aziraphale had started _preening_ his good wing, fingers running through the feathers, combing out those singed or broken and smoothing the rest into place, brushing away the dust and sand.

Crawly stared at him for a long moment, too shocked to say anything at first. He wanted to protest-- opened his mouth to do so, even. Preening was something friendly, intimate, even, and they weren't-- they barely knew each other, they certainly weren't _friends_.

But... no-one had touched his wings, not since- since- he couldn't remember. Since before the Fall, maybe. And Aziraphale-- against all odds and despite all his expectations, Aziraphale had helped him. Aziraphale... Aziraphale wouldn't hurt him, he was almost sure of it. So he let himself ignore the little voice that was shouting at him not to let down his guard, insisting there was still some trap here, and relaxed into the angel's touch.

Aziraphale was careful and methodical and so, so gentle as he ran his fingers through the feathers, setting them to rights. It felt _wonderful_ , and Crawly shuddered at the sensation, fighting not to melt into the comforting touch.

Aziraphale seemed to notice, because he startled and pulled his hand away. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Ngh. No. I- It's nothing. You're fine.” Crawly wanted him to keep going, but couldn't bring himself to ask. He'd already made himself far too vulnerable tonight, and he was feeling raw and more than a little exposed.

Aziraphale didn't seem to believe him, however, and he moved away to sit on the opposite side of the fire, putting a professional distance between them once again. Crawly let him go, sipping more of the wine as the angel fussed with his scrolls. It really was very good stuff.

They sat like that for some time, not speaking. Crawly sat and sipped from the wineskin, while Aziraphale looked through his scrolls. Idly, Crawly wondered what he was reading about. He didn't read much, himself. Not that he _couldn't_ , but he didn't like it, the way writing locked the stories into one form, unchanging. He preferred hearing them from humans, liked the way the tales shifted from storyteller to storyteller, always fluid. Still, he supposed it had its uses-- if you were keeping track of trade goods or tax records, you probably wanted something a little more reliable than human memory.

Maybe it was the wine, but he felt himself relaxing, warm and a little sleepy. He felt a bit stronger, too, enough to tuck his wings safely away in the ether, at least. Standing up, he moved closer to to Aziraphale, leaning back on a rock and looking up at the stars. The silver cloud of the galaxy arm was gorgeous as it spilled across the sky, undimmed by the firelight, glittering with thousands and thousands of stars. Millions of worlds the humans had no idea were even there. Not that it stopped them from wondering. There were hundreds of them right now around fires of their own, he was sure, looking up at the vast dark of night and wondering _what if,_ and _how,_ and _why?_

Suddenly, he had to know. “Why didn't you?” he asked, turning to Aziraphale.

“Hm?” Aziraphale looked up from his scroll, blinking owlishly, clearly confused by the abrupt outburst.  
  
“On the wall. In Eden. Why didn't you smite me then. Or- or any of the other times.”

Aziraphale frowned, humming thoughtfully. “I'm not sure,” he says, after some consideration. “Truly, it never occurred to me to do so.”

Crawly blinked, almost spitting out his wine in shock. “What, _really_? Come on. You were supposed to be a Guardian, weren't you? What else were you supposed to do, if not strike down invaders? What was that ruddy great flaming sword meant for, if not that?”

Aziraphale flushed, spluttering excuses.

“Come to think of it,” Crawly said slowly, “kind of a failure on your part that I got in at all, wasn't it? Should've thought you'd be furious about that, want some payback when I showed up later.”

This, of course, was not a wise thread of conversation to be pursuing. Crawly knew that. He really should _not_ be provoking the angel who'd been so unaccountably kind to him. It was just- He got like this, sometimes. Overcome by an urge, almost a compulsion, really, to keep needling at an issue, pushing and prodding until he got to the truth. Even when the truth was likely to blow up in his face, he couldn't stop himself. He had to _know_.

“I'm an angel,” Aziraphale huffed. “We're meant to be kind to all living things. Even those who- who make things difficult for others.”

“Oh, come off it,” Crawly grumbled, taking another sip of wine and finding only the dregs remained. Scowling, he tossed the wineskin aside. “You _must_ know angels aren't like that. Most of them, anyway.” He waved a hand. “Insufferable gits, the lot of them, even Before all the- well, _Before_.”

“Even- even so,” Aziraphale said, weakly. “Even if- if some of us don't all live up to- to Her expectations, surely that's no reason not to try...” Aziraphale trailed off, struggling to continue his explanation, and then sighed, clearly giving it up as a lost cause. ” Oh, very well. If you must know, I-- well, it seems to me that there's quite enough suffering in the world already. I hate to add more to it. Even if the one suffering is a demon.”

Crawly stared at him, caught off-guard. That... was not what he'd expected. He knew this angel was different from the others. He just hadn't realized this one was so-- well, _angelic_. Not the way angels _were_ , all stiff obedience and righteous fury, but the way angels were thought to be, by the humans. Protective. Compassionate. Merciful. Kind, even to an enemy.

 _Still,_ the little voice at the back of his thoughts grumbled, _he hadn't been that way all the time, had he?_

“What about the Flood, then?” he muttered, bitterly. “Plenty of suffering there. Didn't see you doing anything about it.”

There he went again. Couldn't just leave well enough alone, could he? No, he always had to push it just that little bit further.

Something sharp flashed in Aziraphale's eyes, something hot and angry. Then he seemed to collapse in on himself, slumping. He looked down at his hands, curled in fists on his knees, and sighed. “I  _couldn't._ I was ordered there to bear witness, and that was  _all_ . I couldn't interfere. Those were the orders. They were  _very_ clear. No wiggle room.”

Crawly looked at the angel, considering. Something about the way the angel had said it...

“Is that what this is, then?” he asked.

“What?”

Crawly gestured at the two of them, the fire. “All of this. Wiggle room.”

Aziraphale got a look in his eye, then, rather as he'd had on the Garden wall, the one that said he was terribly anxious and uncertain but trying desperately not to show it.

“Well, I,” he fumbled, hands tugging nervously at the edge of his robe. “That is- yes, I suppose. It's only. Well. Of course Heaven doesn't bother itself with petty details, only the big, important things. The key parts of the Great Plan, as it were. And so... obviously, when I haven't been given direct orders, I'm left to my own discretion. And I- I don't see that it's necessary, to engage in _violence_ , if the problem can be solved in another way. That's- that's what we're meant to be demonstrating for the humans, isn't it? To guide them down the right path. Compassion. Kindness. Mercy.”

Crawly made a face. “Don't think Her mercy is supposed to apply to demons. 's rather the whole point, wasn't it.”

Aziraphale looked away, then, watching as his fingers idly twisted the ring on his hand. “Yes, well,” he said softly. “Perhaps not Hers, then. Perhaps only my own mercy, small as it is.”

“Mm,” Crawly murmured.The mercy of one angel-- it wasn't much, but it was more than he'd get from anyone else. And it had been enough, hadn't it, to ease his hurts.

Perhaps it was worth more than Aziraphale thought, after all.

They didn't talk much, after that, or when they did, it was of lighter matters; local trade and politics, all the day to day matters humans concerned themselves so deeply with. It was pleasant, having someone to discuss things with, immortal to immortal. To note the changes that humans were too short-lived to see, talk of matters the humans wouldn't discover for centuries yet. Crawly began to understand why the humans spent so much time, gathered together, sharing food and companionship and warmth as the stars wheeled overhead and the night faded.

They parted ways, come morning. Crawly had an assignment pending in Damascus, and Aziraphale was continuing on to Byblos, which Crawly had been so rudely ejected from. Something about scrolls and securing a key trade route. Crawly didn't pay much attention to the details. It was nothing Hell would be terribly interested in, anyway, and he was more than happy to put the port city behind him. Just as well he moved on, even though he wasn't expected in Damascus for another month. Not like he was going to get anything more done there anyway, with a smite-happy angel hanging around.

He did send a package back with a merchant caravan, though, once he'd established himself in the city. It wasn't properly addressed, but the small miracle he placed on it meant it would safely end up with Aziraphale, wherever he was.

He wasn't sure why he sent it, really. Demons didn't do gifts, and they certainly didn't offer _thank yous_. But it felt... right. To acknowledge that night somehow, rather than letting it fade away, unmarked and forgotten.

It wasn't much, just a trinket he'd found in the marketplace; a thin golden bracelet, etched with delicate feather patterns, and in the center, a single drop of honey-gold amber.

There was no note with the package, nothing to indicate who it was from, only his own inscription on the inside of the band:

_For small mercies._

The mercy of one angel, and a trinket from one demon. It wasn't much, but it was... something, surely. A beginning, maybe, or a seed. Who knew what it might become. Like a story, it might turn into anything.

Crawly was rather looking forward to finding out.


End file.
